12 Nights of Christmas...

When reconstructing Notre Dame after a disastrous fire, scaffolding was used to ensure the safety of those workers.

I, too, am using scaffolding.

What do I want life to look like?
What do I want it to feel like?
How do I embody main character energy?

I spent a good portion of yesterday and this morning journaling, searching for the intentions I want to release over the next 12 nights… a ritual that has become steady in my life.

This ritual is fondly referred to as Rauhnächte, meaning the rough or smoky nights. Our ancestors, living by ancient Gregorian calendars, realized something curious: a solar year is 365 days, yet there are only 12 lunar cycles of roughly 28 days each. That leaves about 11 or 12 days unaccounted for at the end of the year.

They believed these days existed outside of normal time… when the veil was thinner, fate could be influenced, and the future could be glimpsed and shaped.

The ritual begins on the Winter Solstice and continues for 11 more nights.

You come to the first evening with 13 intentions for the year ahead.
What do you want to accomplish?
Where do you see yourself this time next year?

Think carefully.
Think honestly.
Imagine it in both your heart and your mind.

Write each intention down on its own piece of paper. Speak them aloud. Feel them. Envision them. Then fold each paper toward you at least three times. I keep mine in a beautiful velvet bag to hold them safely for the next few nights.

Each of the 12 nights, you get quiet. Blindly pick one intention… without looking… and burn it (safely; I use a candle) until it becomes nothing but ashes.

Do this for all 12 nights.

You will be left with one intention.

That one, you get to look at.

For 12 nights, you release the others to God, the Universe, or whatever higher power you believe in… trusting they will be handled for you. But that last one? That one is on you. Over the next year, you take steps, big or small, toward honoring and achieving it.

This ritual first called to me because I was learning how to release control without losing myself. Previous attempts at letting go had left me wandering aimlessly.

The first year I did this, the intention I was left with was simple:
I will be happy.

And I did it… even though it ruffled feathers. I began therapy. I started unwrapping my true self. I learned how to recognize happiness within me, without attaching it to people or things.

It worked so well that I did it again.

Last year, my intention centered on trust… after the depth of abandonment I had felt in my life. I was shocked when the Universe plucked my marriage away… along with friendships and long-held thought patterns. But what remained was for ME.

I remember the intentions I released, and just before the end of the year, the Universe hit the gas. And here we are. I have never known this kind of peace… even when my life may look chaotic from the outside. And the intention I was responsible for? That one’s covered.

This year, I want to remember how to stand in wonder again. I want to restore the balance of giving and receiving.

So here I go again.. this time with the deep knowing that this practice works for me. It has strengthened my faith in timing, my trust in the unseen, and my understanding that I play an active role in constructing my life.

Tonight, when I release the first intention, I trust that the Universe will adjust the experiences in my life… guiding me toward the arches, steeples, and color selections I’ve chosen for myself.

Because my foundation is strong.
It always has been.

What intentions will you set for 2026?
(Don’t tell me… tell the stars. They love you as much as I do.)

Turn Right 500 Feet from Here...

What I truly want to place in your hands,

beloved,

has no shape.

There is no jar to hold it,

no sentence to ferry it from my heart

into yours.

Still...

I keep cupping my palms

as if light might finally agree

to sit still long enough

to be delivered.

You ask me

which turn to take,

what words to speak,

how to stop your heart

from arguing with itself.

And I smile,

for I know that secret ache:

the map you want

is folded somewhere

inside your own breath.

I cannot unfold it for you.

God knows... I’ve tried.

I’ve spent lifetimes trying.

But every time I lean close

to hand you an answer,

it dissolves into incense,

and all you smell

is your own longing.

So I point instead.

Here,

five hundred feet from this moment,

turn toward the place

where your courage stirs.

Then walk

until you hear

your soul knocking

from the inside.

Do not ask me how to open that door...

you were born with the hinges

already in your bones.

Yes, I know...

it is strange that so many

wander to me for counsel

as if I am some lantern

that has figured out

how to tame the dark.

I laugh sometimes,

because I am only learning

a half-step ahead of them.

And some days...

not even that.

But I do know this:

Every time I try to give

what cannot be given,

Love leans in

and whispers,

“Beloved…

your presence is already enough.

Your gentleness is instruction.

Your listening is a balm.

You guide best

by never pretending

you know the way.”

So I sit beside you

in the dust of this world,

offering nothing

but my company

and the quiet faith

that the path

will glow beneath your feet

the moment

you dare

to take the next step.

And somehow...

that becomes the gift

I could not give

by any other means.

~Mme. Pamela McCreight~

(The gal who was incredibly inspired by The Great Sufi Master, Hafiz)

The Year the Decorations Didn't Break Me...

Last December, I shoved them into their boxes in a blur of heartbreak and survival mode. A year ago, I was drowning. And I’ve quietly dreaded opening those boxes ever since, afraid they’d pull me backward into a version of myself I’ve outgrown but still grieved.

But it didn’t go that way.

This time, I opened the first lid in the quiet of my new home... my safe little sanctuary... and instead of dread, something warm rose in my chest. A ribbon slipped out from the top and fluttered onto the floor, and just like that…not pain, not a punch, but gratitude.

A single tear slipped out, slow and honest.

It felt like growth.

Like letting go.

Like a new breath in a brand-new life.

Maybe it was the safety of these walls.

Maybe it was the softness I’ve finally allowed myself.

Maybe it was simply time.

But in that moment, something in me opened... and all the past versions of me stepped forward, as if they had been waiting for this exact day.

 The Little Girl... 

The beautiful dark-haired girl with the galaxy-wide eyes and that impossibly big heart. She’s been visiting me a lot lately. I used to tell her to be careful... don’t trust everyone, don’t give your energy to people who don’t deserve you. But recently, the conversation changed.  

I started noticing that she still has dreams.

She still has hope.

She still carries our joy.

She still sees the world with wonder—wide open, curious, unafraid.

And suddenly I didn’t want to protect her from the world anymore.

I wanted to protect her spirit within me.

The Preteen...

The girl learning that the world can be cruel. The one who lost her grandfather. The one who first learned that her body, her appearance, her size somehow mattered to other people... and that their opinions could alter her entire experience of being alive. We’ve been talking too. I used to tell her, “What they say doesn’t matter. Just smile and keep going.” But that was never the whole truth. Now I tell her, “Let it sting if it has to—but don’t let it stay. Their opinions do not follow you into the life you’re building. Love yourself fiercely. To your very core.”

 The Teenager...

 The spunky teenage beauty who never quite fit into the world she was given. Who felt like Alice, always nibbling on the cake to make herself small enough to fit through doors never meant for her. We still talk, usually through music and memories. And I tell her now: “You were never too much. The rooms were just too small.”

 The 20-Something New Mom...

 Oh, this one is tender. The young woman terrified of messing up, terrified of not being enough, terrified of the weight and wonder of motherhood.  The one who felt abandoned because she stepped into that role. Left to figure it all out alone. To her, I say: “You were never abandoned because you weren’t worthy. You were abandoned because they weren’t ready.  But you did it anyway. You grew wings you didn’t know you had.” She still cries sometimes. But now, she also smiles.

 The 30-Something Rebuilder....

 The woman who had to start over—again. Who stepped up, moved forward with responsibilities, disappointments, debts, dreams… all while holding a brave face in public and a breaking heart in private. She fought her way through years of storms that should’ve drowned her. She learned how to rebuild a life from scattered pieces no one else could see beauty in.  To her, I say: “You were not starting over. You were starting toward.”

Back to the Present Moment...

By the time I placed the last ornament on the tree, I realized something simple and stunning: I wasn’t just decorating a home. I was welcoming back every version of me who never had one. Those boxes didn’t hold memories of heartbreak. They held proof of survival. Proof of becoming. Proof of a woman who has grown into someone strong enough to hold all her past selves... and still create a future worth stepping into.

This year, the decorations didn’t break me.

They reminded me who I am becoming.

And I think… maybe that’s the real magic of this season.

Not the lights, not the tree, not the glitter... but the quiet realization that I am finally, truly, home!